


When you were lost (I followed right behind)

by MissKira



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Boys In Love, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Civil War (Marvel), Recovery, Team as Family, but with some fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-13
Updated: 2016-06-28
Packaged: 2018-06-08 05:36:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6841120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissKira/pseuds/MissKira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Steve makes his way back to the front of the craft, mind on two things: anesthetic for Bucky, and what might be in those notebooks that is so important, he stayed awake to beg for them to be retrieved." Steve and Bucky make their way, with a small detour to grab a backpack, some notebooks, and figure out what comes next.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't help myself. When I realized Bucky had to leave his backpack behind, knowing what was inside and how important it was, I needed to figure out how to get it back. And if Steve has some time to look through them, well, that's just a bit of a bonus for me. 
> 
> Many thanks to Beth for getting me to write and post this in the first place! You keep me going! 
> 
> Writing this as a WIP, but have most of the story planned out already. Please note the rating may change. Title from Fall Together by Temper Trap.

_I spent a lot of nights on the run_  
And I think oh, like I'm lost and can't be found  
I'm just waiting for my day to come  
And I think oh, I don't wanna let you down  
Cause something inside has changed  
And maybe we don't wanna stay the same  
\- "Spirits" Strumbellas

 

They both look like hell.

Now that the adrenaline has started to fade and the red in his vision dissipates, Steve can feel every bruise and cut and break with each step, his enhanced body no match for a fight with a robotic suit. There was just _something_ about it all that kept him going long after the point of no return, and as he walks, _stumbles_ , through the thick snow of Siberia, feet growing colder through thick boots, figures it all has to do with the half-dead weight hanging from his left side.

Tony had become a bully, and this time, Steve got to be the one to stand up to fight.

Exhausted, Steve shakes his head; everything is such a fucking _mess_.

They’ve come out below the compound, out the side and around the edge of the bluff, too far to grab the white and red vehicle Zemo brought in. The walk wasn’t far on approach, but Steve can feel Bucky missing steps as they crunch through the snow, the remnants of his metal arm twitching as he winces. There hasn’t been a chance to compare notes, to learn how long it takes Bucky to heal versus Steve was his version of the serum weaker? Stronger? Enhanced in other ways?

There are so many questions, but most die on his tongue. He _knows_ in a way no one else does that Bucky is worth it, absolutely. Others couldn’t see past the soldier to the man underneath, allowing their compassion to be clouded by politics. Steve sighs, a tiny puff of breath visible in the frigid air. Aren’t they supposed to be the ones to help?

The thought is incredibly naive and Steve knows it. The situation is more complicated; the edges of law and justice are just not made to deal with something so severe as complete control. 

Steve nearly topples over when Bucky goes down to one knee, a soft sigh escaping his lips. It's hard to see Bucky's face past the curtain of long, greasy brown hair - _it's too long, not right!_ \- and before he can stop himself, arm working from muscle memory, feeling small and skinny and 16, Steve reaches out to tuck the hair behind Bucky's bloodied ear. If his fingers linger a moment, he doesn't care. Bucky's face is tight, eyes pinched closed, but he isn't making a sound. 

"You alright, Buck?" Steve asks, leaning over a bit. "We don't really have time for you to take a nap." 

There's a huff of laughter, the edges of Bucky's lips curling into a smile. "S'not me who takes too many naps," he mutters, words thick.

"Yeah, well," - Steve lifts his head, eyes on the horizon. Tony isn't going to stay down for long, and even without the suit, he could easily catch up with them. "No time to start now." 

"Screw you," Bucky huffs. He takes a deep breath and slowly - and with great assistance - gets back to his feet, the hand on Steve's shoulder tightening, fingers grasping tight enough to leave bruises.

"How far to the outpost?" Steve asks as they start walking again. He wishes they could run out of here, but the further they get from the bunker, the more Steve feels the physical effects of the fight. He's going to sleep for a week after this. The thought is a nice dream, but he's put a target on their backs, made it bigger, and pulled in more people - 

"Ah, shit!" he moans. 

Bucky looks over at him, hair falling from behind his ear. Steve will have to introduce him to ponytail holders if he insists on keeping it. "What?" 

"The others. Damnit, Bucky, we can't just _leave them_." 

"Of course not," replies Bucky, breaths deep between words. "Steve Rogers, pillar of American Values - seriously, Steve, how did you become the virtuous one?" It takes awhile for him to get the sentence out, steps in the snow their cadence. 

"No idea. Don't go blowing my cover." 

"Lord help me," mutters Bucky. He stumbles again, and without his left arm, he can only grab onto Steve and pull him down with him. They tumble into the snow until they both land on their backs. Steve groans and lays their, wishing he had the resources of the Avengers - they could be in a Quinjet right now. To his left, Bucky does the same, blue eyes on the cloudy sky above. 

"We should get up," Steve comments. 

"Yeah, we should." 

"You first." 

"Punk." Then, "Steve." 

There's so much laced into Bucky's voice, Steve sobers a bit and turns his head - snow makes his ear cold, almost burns - frowning. Bucky's always has this compulsion to fill the silence, but this isn't the Bucky of old, that confidant man who walked with a swagger and danced until the sun came up. This Bucky, Steve's learned, can be still and silent for hours, only his eyes betraying the turmoil under the surface. 

A moment later, Bucky turns his head and those eyes are a wild storm over a surging ocean, the intensity of his gaze heavy against the whistling white backdrop of mountains and snow. He opens his mouth to say something, but freezes as he catches sight of something behind Steve, eyes narrowing, hand curling into a fist. Steve frowns and pushes himself up on his elbows; there's no way Tony has made it to them, not yet. 

But the figure in the snow is clad in black. 

The new King of Wakanda approaches slowly, mask held loosely in one hand. Steve hears rather than sees Bucky push himself to his feet and whips his head around, notes the defensive posture, and does a flip up that makes his back ache and ribs scream, landing fluidly on his feet between the two men. 

T'Challa holds up a hand, head a bit bowed. There's something to his posture - he must have seen the initial confrontation because his eyes, mournful and sad, are only on Bucky. "I am sorry," he says, voice thick despite the cold, still air. "I have been blinded by vengeance." 

"What changed your mind?" quips Steve. He can't help it; the whole thing is like tender, raw skin - any mention of it causes him to flinch and lash out. Too many people have turned out to be lying to him, used him as a puppet, used _Bucky_ as a puppet, and he's _done_. Neither of them are going to be pushed around like pawns on a global scale, not when the hands guiding the pieces have their own agendas. It's why Steve couldn't sign the Accords - Bucky, the Winter Soldier, was a prime example of what could happen when other men decided where strength was needed. Steve knows he's dangerous. He's _always_ known and fights hard to keep it in check. 

None of them have met the Steve he was before, a ball of wild, angry energy. 

T'Challa turns his eyes in Steve's direction and gives a small, wain smile. "I deserved that."

"And more," Steve returns. 

"Steve," says Bucky from behind him. Steve turns just in time to see Bucky's legs give out from under him in an amazing display of gravity and grace. He's faster, though, and grabs Bucky on his right side, finds himself eye to eye with T'Challa who, Steve sees, has Bucky from the other side, gentle and mindful of the literal raw nerves of the blasted arm. 

"I don't know what happened," T'Challa is saying, "but allow me to apologize for my actions by assisting you." 

As always, when making the hard decisions, Steve Rogers looks to his best friend, the true north of his formerly small and fragile life. 

\--

And he thought Stark had some pretty advanced stuff. 

T'Challa's aircraft isn't far from their original entry point, which means the Wakandan king had been following them for awhile, which makes Steve question his own hearing because neither him nor Bucky had any idea. He could imagine the Howlies now, laughing at the story of the cat-superhero who got one up on the mashed up team of _SteveandBucky_. Steve can't help but chuckle at the thought, sitting beside T'Challa in the cockpit. 

Below, Siberia begins to give way to the rolling forests of Europe, endless expanses of green and blue and turquoise that make Steve itch for a good set of watercolors and about two hours to himself. It's how his mind works, relating all he finds amazing or beautiful or strange to the colors in a battered old tin he left somewhere in Europe after crashing into the ice. He never had much time for them, but he brought them all the same, if only for sentimental value - he and Bucky pooled together two weeks of wages to get him that set, and the next month of potato soup was worth it, if only for the grin that lit up Bucky's face whenever he pulled them out. 

When he woke up, Steve was too angry to do much more than train, wander, and sleep. 

His companion doesn't say much, but then, there's a lot for all of them to process. Steve and Bucky are still wanted, and as soon as Tony returns, it'll stick. Taking them in is a huge risk, and one Steve appreciates wholeheartedly - he would probably have turned it down if not for the look in T'Challa's eyes when he offered. If Steve can get help for Bucky and help someone else ease their guilt, who is he to stand in the way? They let the flight pass in silence, Steve's sensitive hearing listening to the even breaths of Bucky's unconscious sleep, ready to spring into action the moment he senses distress. 

He hears the first shuffles of moving clothing about two hours into the flight, and quickly excuses himself to the rear of the craft. There's a small medbay here, with a soft bed and loads of sensors and screens. Honestly, Steve doesn't know where to look so he focuses on Bucky, stirring from sleep. He sees the moment it all comes back to him, watches Bucky's face crumble and eyes close in sadness. It pulls at Steve's heart and all the guilt that this is somehow _his_ fault for not going back roars, blocking out everything until he takes a few deep breaths and remembers _this is his guilt alone_. 

"Hey," Steve says, for lack of anything better. 

Bucky swallows thickly and nods, tongue darting out to lick his lips. "You know how when you wake up from a nightmare, it seems to real, and then you realize you were dreaming?" 

"Sure." 

He shakes his head, eyes bright in the lights of the various monitors. Their blue glow makes Bucky's eyes even more vibrant. "I wasn't dreaming." 

Steve puts his hand on the good shoulder - the real shoulder - and holds tight. "I know, Buck, I know." 

But Bucky shakes his head. "No, Steve, you _don't_. I can't wake up. I see their faces, see their fear, and - " He trails off, looking somewhere off Steve's shoulder. Steve only grips harder, then shoves at Bucky's feet with his other hand. The legs curl a bit, and Steve sits in the space created just for him. But he doesn't say anything - what can he say? God, this is so, so _fucked up_. 

"C'mon," teases Bucky, groaning. "I seem to remember you're the king of Impressive Speeches. Don't have anything for your pal?" 

"You're terrible at making new friends?" 

"Really?"

Steve shrugs. "You could have at least _pretended_ to like Sam." This is good, this is _safe_ , bickering with Bucky.

"You mean my replacement? I don't like him. He's an asshole." 

"An asshole who helped me look for you for a year, and was on your side in a heartbeat." 

"Well, you guys are terrible at searching for people. A _year_ , Steve?" 

Steve tries for a smile but must fail because of the look on Bucky's face. "I'd spend every year I have left searching for you." 

"We were fine and then you go and get all soulful on me." 

At that, Steve rolls his eyes and shoves at Bucky's shoulder. 

"Where are we going anyway?" Bucky asks, slightly breathless. 

Steve's attention snaps to the monitors above them. He can read basic stuff, blood pressure, oxygen, heart rate. Bucky's has gone up steadily since they started talking, and while he may have been conditioned not to show pain, his body can't lie. A frown forms as Steve tries to decipher the rest.

"Hey," Bucky says, hand tugging on the fabric of Steve's pants, "hey, hey I'm fine."

"Have you seen yourself?" retorts Steve.

"We have to stop," Bucky presses on, voice beginning to slur a bit - he's going to pass out and there isn't a damn thing Steve can do about it. He looks down at his friend and shakes his head - they don't have time to stop, not when there's probably a manhunt for them being organized by Tony Stark. "No, we have to," insists Bucky as his eyes start to flutter closed. "My backpack, Stevie, I need my backpack."

Steve is about to ask why his backpack is so precious, but then he remembers how well hidden it was under the floorboards. There's something precious inside. "Your notebooks," Steve breathes. "Yeah, okay, man, we'll get them."

Bucky's hold on his pants is still tight even as the man himself falls unconscious again. Steve makes his way back to the front of the craft, mind on two things: anesthetic for Bucky, and what might be in those notebooks that is so important, he stayed awake to beg for them to be retrieved. 

\--


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After a vacation and huge project at work, I am back with chapter two! Thank you all SO MUCH for the kudos and comments and bookmarks! You're too kind! :) 
> 
> Much love to B for reading it over and listening to me try to figure things out. 
> 
> I'm also looking for a beta to help me out!
> 
> Enjoy!

_Who am I, what and why_  
'Cause all I have left  
Is my memories of yesterday 

\- Sour Times, Portishead

 

He learns about Zemo when T'Challa shoots down Steve's request to make a stop.

It takes every ounce of self control Steve ever scrapped together to keep himself from storming into the locked hold and throwing the man out of the plane. But Sarah Rogers didn't raise a son without compassion, and while he can _understand_ , on an intellectual level, why Zemo did what he did, he still used Bucky like everyone else, a weapon pointed and fired without any regard for the soul inside. Instead, Steve takes deep breaths that hiss out through clenched teeth. Killing Zemo now would achieve nothing. It may make Steve _feel_ better, but that's all - and there are others to consider.

There are always others. Even Steve's most selfish act - defending Bucky and dropping the shield - was for someone else.

_Keep telling yourself that._

T'Challa's sharp eyes are on Steve's face - he needs to know Steve won't go after the Sokovian in the hold - so Steve gives a tight nod and hopes the message is understood.

It is.

"With how things have been working out for your friend, him being in the craft while we stop in Berlin would certainly end badly," the man points out evenly.

Steve shakes his head. "You being seen with me would give everything away."

To this, T'Challa smiles, grin wide. "Then you simply can't be seen with me."

This is the first hint that T'Challa may actually be as crazy as Steve.

* * *

They're met, as soon as the hold is emptied, by a stern young black man holding a tablet in one hand, who stops short when T'Challa disembarks and bows his head. He says something in Wakandan and the two exchange quick words, T'Challa motioning behind him where Steve stands with a limp Bucky held tightly against his side. His grip tightens subconsciously, hand tight on the remains of Bucky's metal arm, careful to avoid the raw nerves hanging from the casing. Bucky shifts - Steve feels the shoulder move, the simple motion causing Steve to hold his breath, stomach coiled tight. Everything Tony did can heal, with time, except the arm. There's no HYDRA to put on a new one, if such a backup existed, and Tony is the next person Steve can think of able to create a replacement.

No, for now, Bucky will have one arm.

The thought causes anger to blossom in Steve's chest. Everything can be fixed, everything but _this_.

"Hey," he says softly, angling his head so it nearly touches Bucky's. "We're safe here."

"Not safe anywhere," Bucky replies, muttering. Steve can't even begin to imagine the pain his friend must be in. Despite being a science project himself, Steve only understands the basics and finds it hard to follow when things get technical - he grew up before so much of the technology this century depends on and finds a lot of his knowledge is basic and archaic - and knows creating a proper prothesis to replace that which was lost isn't something most people can create.

"You're safe with me," vows Steve, and it feels like one - an old one, reawakened. "It's my turn."

Bucky shakes his head slowly, hair falling across his forehead when he turns his head up. "S'not supposed to be that way, Stevie. I don't care if you went and got bigger."

Steve frowns at his comment and the look in his eyes - he hasn't seen that one for _years_ , and his heart jumps at the very real and tangible proof that his former life was _real_ and not a sentimental dream. His grip tightens, fingers tightening around charred metal and that damn red star. The guilt is still there, and probably always will be, and Steve uses it to keep himself on his feet despite the overwhelming exhaustion dimming the edges of his vision. He can go another six hours, but won't be of much use for awhile after that, as the Howlie's discovered a few months into their new mission.

"Captain," T'Challa's tone is calm, Steve snapping out of his thoughts when a gentle hand touches his arm. He blinks a few times and sees a few more people have joined them, accompanying a gurney that looks more advanced that even the new ones he's just gotten used to. Hospitals aren't like how they were, from the times he remembers in them, either as a patient or visiting his mom.

For a second, the thought of being separated from Bucky terrifies him.

A thousand things could go wrong. People, yes, are good, but there are so many spies and lies and plants with plenty to gain from recovering even a one-armed Winter Soldier. If even his _friends_ had turned on him -

"I swear to you, you and your friend will come to no harm here," voices the Wakandan King, still speaking softly. "We are a county only recently reemerging into the world; there are no outside influences that would sway allegiance."

Suddenly Bucky is so damn heavy, Steve stumbles a bit. Not trusting his voice, he gives a tight nod. A collective breath is taken and people are moving again, silence broken by the rush of the scene moving around him. The gurney is pushed up in front of them and Steve slowly releases his hold as two people come up to help steady the swaying bulk Bucky's become.

Steve's hand slides down Bucky's real arm and he grips his hand. "You okay?"

Bucky's head lolls on the pillow once he's laying down, blue eyes slivers against his pale face. "For Chrissake, Rogers," he groans, but his lips pull into a lopsided grin.

"Yeah, well, you always worried over me," stammers Steve, suddenly shy at their role reversal. "Just giving you a taste of the hell you put me through."

"Haha, you're a regular comedian," Bucky deadpans. "You're gonna go, aren't you?"

"Of course," replies Steve.

"You shouldn't," says Bucky lowly. "You could get caught."

"I'm going."

The look Bucky affixes on him is so raw and full of surprise, Steve can't help but laugh. It's a nervous reaction, a deflection against the intense emotions plain as day on Bucky's face. In all the time since Steve _finally_ found him, there's only been one moment of vulnerability, a crack in the armor he wears around himself. Now, safe and exhausted, Steve can see the remnants of a man he once knew better than himself.

And if one thing hasn't changed over the past seventy years, it's Steve Rogers ability to completely read Bucky Barnes.

It probably goes the other way, too. Bucky thanks him before the group of medical professionals wheel him through a door at the hanger's far end.

* * *

Steve finds himself in a small but elegantly decorated room, where he feels like a giant and out of place. It's a familiar feeling, and he craves the simplicity of his old apartment in DC.

Wakandan technology is as advanced as Stark's, if not _more so_ , and after Steve figures out how to tint the glass windows, he feels the warm blossoming of hope in his stomach. It fuels him as he kicks off his boots and shucks the outside of his uniform, leaving him in a black undershirt and underwear. As he crawls into bed, he notes how _soft_ the mattress is, and is thankful he's so exhausted, it doesn't impede his sleep.

He promised to go within twelve hours, and after seven, Steve wakes up feeling a bit more refreshed. Rubbing sleep from his eyes, he stretches a bit in bed, testing his recently-healed limbs. The smaller injuries, like bruises and cuts, have all but healed, leaving his face half-blotchy with a yucky yellow tinge. The sprains will take a few more days to be completely healed, but they don't hurt, not that much, and he's walked through enemy territory with worse injuries and came out fine.

Of course, he had the Howlies to keep him from doing anything stupid, Bucky in particular...

Steve sighs and closes his eyes, trying to figure out a way from this mess. It's a spider's web of catch and release, and right now, his friends are caught in it. There's no way he can go back to Berlin and negotiate their release - for the first time in his life, Steve Rodgers is on the wrong side of the law.

_It's a stupid law anyway._

Even with Bucky back, in the flesh, Steve still hears his voice in his head, those sarcastic retorts that used to flow so easily from his friend. God, look at where they are now - superhuman and living in the future. It far surpasses the dreams they had back in Brooklyn. Before the war, all they could wish for was a somewhat clean apartment and maybe three good meals a day. The dream grew while they were in Europe, but both knew there was a slim chance of that happening for either of them.

And then Bucky died, and Steve watched all his dreams fall with him.

Waking up seventy years later only solidified the truth: Steve would never have a future with him. And _that's_ why he ran.

Steve runs his hands through his hair a few times, trying to straighten it out and make it somewhat presentable, before swinging his legs over the edge. His feet it the smooth, soft carpeting and even _that_ was something he grew up without. This new future caters to him in a way he'd never experienced, most forgetting he grew up in poverty during the Great Depression. It can be overwhelming, like right now, when he sees clothes have been left for him, his size already known because _of course they know his size_. He's Captain America, larger than life.

Right now, he'd rather be Steve. Because then that means Bucky's _here_ and he can feel whole once again.

He dresses quickly and abandons the room in search of T'Challa. It's been seven hours - hopefully, the Wakandan king hasn't left without him.

The backpack Bucky grabbed - hidden in a safe place and grabbed when his apartment had to be abandoned - has Steve curious. What could possibly be in there that's so important? Granted, Natasha has go packs just like it, tucked behind the driver's seat of her car, and another in her apartment, not that he's ever seen them. Her packs, as far as he knows, never contained more than fake IDs, cash, and an impressive array of weapons, certainly nothing worth going back for.

So what's in there?

It would be an invasion of privacy, going through the contents. Sure, Steve and Bucky never had secrets from each other, and rarely observed personal boundaries because of how much they were together, but Steve doesn't know if _this_ Bucky feels the same. So many choices have been taken away from him; Steve doesn't want to be the next in a long line of those who chose for him.

He's still curious, though.

And going with to make sure Zemo was handed over the Ross will help temper the anger simmering under the surface. He'd like a chance to speak to the man himself, but knows it would end badly. His usual calm temperament always evaporates when Bucky is in trouble.

After a few minutes, Steve admits to himself he has no idea where he's going. The complex is _huge_ , if the maps he's seen near elevators can be believed, and searching on his own could take too much time. Time they don't have. Seeing some kind of computer terminal along the hallway he's walking, Steve heads for it and presses the call button.

"How may we help you, Captain Rogers?" comes a smooth, accented female voice. Steve blinks, used to JARVIS answering and not another human, and it takes a moment before he can speak.

"I'm looking for King T'Challa."

"His royal highness is in his office. May I direct you?"

* * *

"You will be happy to know we have been able to stabilize your friend."

T'Challa turns from where he was gazing out the giant, floor to ceiling windows that line one wall of his expansive office. The view is beautiful, captivating, and Steve is drawn to the windows himself, looking out over the lush greenery of Wakanda. The waterfall rumbles on the edge of his sight, the sound clear to his enhanced hearing. He lets it rumble for a few seconds before tuning it out - a trick he learned early on, when camped with the Howlies in France. He shudders at the memory, shoving his hands in his pockets.

He hears the soft steps of T'Challa coming up beside him, but doesn't turn to face him. There's a beat before T'Challa says, "It is a beautiful place, isn't it?"

Steve nods. His fingers itch for a pencil and paper to sketch out the scene, but he keeps his hands closed. "I'd like to see more of it."

"But not right now," T'Challa responds with a small smile. Steve turns to face him, surprised at the insight. Since that first moment, when Bucky was named most wanted for a crime he didn't commit, Steve's focus has been in finding and protecting him, no matter what. Wakanda may be beautiful, and he's sure he could spend weeks painting each landscape, but he won't be able to relax until he knows Bucky is whole and safe.

He gives T'Challa a strained smile. The Wakandan king nods and turns with the air of a shift in the conversation, headed for the modern desk behind them.

"We can leave whenever you are ready. I have secured Zemo and am expected back in Berlin by this evening - "

"We can go now," Steve says tightly.

T'Challa considers him for a moment, eyes sharp and piercing, making Steve feel vulnerable. The sensation knocks his equilibrium, throwing him back to the first twenty-something years of his life spent fragile and _limited_ by a body that constantly betrayed him. He drops into in the same way he did then - defensive, angry, _stubborn_.

He notes how T'Challa's eye narrow, just a bit, before he nods and grabs his phone from the desk.

"Thank you, again," Steve remarks, feeling the need to fill the silence, "for all of this."

"Humans have done stranger things for love," comes the reply.

The king is passing Steve, still standing beside the windows, falling water still rumbling on the edge of his hearing. The comment hits Steve straight in the chest, hard, and he's winded for no reason but the calm feeling of _yes_ whispered throughout his mind.

"He's my friend. Of course - "

"No, Captain," T'Challa interrupts, "It is clear that you love him as more than a friend. May we all love so deeply, and have the courage to preserve it, no matter the cost." He pauses, near the doors, head bowed. "I proclaimed vengeance for my murdered father. And that is a love stronger than simple friendship."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the kudos guys! It's really helping me to keep writing. Now that I'm back from vacation and in the office, updates should come once a week. I have the next few chapters planned out already - I should have known that my attempt to write a moderately long fic would turn into an entire freaking novel. 
> 
> Big thanks to Beth for reading this chapter over. All mistakes are mine.

 

**CHAPTER THREE**  

  
_“No one can tell what goes on in between the person you were and the person you become.”_ \- Stephen King

When he wakes, Steve isn't there.  

For one wild moment, Bucky feels the adrenaline surge through his body as he assesses his surroundings, mind unable to grab hold of _where he is_. His breathing slows and he stays as still as he can, eyes the only thing moving as they rove around the bright, clinically white room. He's alone - thank Christ - so no one witnesses the way he suddenly thrashes on the bed when he discovers he's missing an arm. His memories are hazy, without context or a sense of order, like clouds of smoke captured in light to create the illusion of _thereness_. 

The fight in Siberia snaps into sharp focus as the initial panic fades away. 

With a groan, Bucky settles back into the soft mattress and runs his hand - his _only_  hand - through his hair. It's slick with grease; he makes a face at how greasy it feels as he wipes his hand on the blanket. He never really thought about his hair except for when it gets in his face when trying to set up a shot. Now, it's long and annoying, and he _should_  want to get it cut, want to do something with it. Instead, he feels indifferent. 

He feels indifferent about a lot of things. 

It isn't that he doesn't care - he has opinions, and thoughts, and always has - it's that there are other things more important and bigger that the length of his hair is...inconsequential. What he looks like, what clothes he wears - these are all things modified for the mission at hand, and is never a true reflection of him. 

What would that reflection even look like? 

He thinks of the larger-than-life glass etching hanging in the Smithsonian, how easy it was to adopt the expression on the hazy remembered face. Half his memories float unmoored in his mind, and it’s easy to confuse them with the nightmares haunting him each night. He reaches out and pulls each to shore, saltwater-soaked rope burning his skin with each massive heave; remembering is _painful_  at times. The shore is littered with small canoes drenched in blood, wood warped and soaked. He sees faces in those, piled high behind him. Out to sea, they block the bright colors of his youth, his past, and so he drags them in, one by one, rewarded by something _happy_.

His bar for what he constitutes _happy_  has lowered significantly since he can last remember. 

Bucky is an amalgamation, a mash-up of here and there and now and then, older than he ever thought he’d get and younger than he could have dreamed. The cynic shaped by the memories of the Solider that play behind his eyes on a never-ending loop of misery and the dreamer who read pulp science fiction novels and spent his nights in the dance halls of Brooklyn. 

The second part only seems to come out around Steve. 

He’s been _stable_ , for lack of a better word, as the weary, confused Winter Soldier hit with memories from a life he should have forgotten. Bits of the he-who-was leak through, a sarcastic quip or phrase he knows comes from somewhere deeper. And over the past few years, he’s grown bolder in recovering all he can. But figuring out who he _was_ is proving much easier than who he _is_. 

And there are some memories so treasured, Bucky holds onto them with both hands as that boat tries to go back out to sea. His hands are raw and bleeding but he _has_  to keep them. More than anything else. The notebooks he collected act as a road map as he tries to bring a sense of time to snippets untethered by being wiped, but never _completely_ gone. 

But the fight - every moment since that newsstand owner recognized his face - is clear, tethered to the golden glow of Steve Rodgers. 

Which is why Bucky is initially terrified, then disappointed, when he wakes alone in an unknown hospital room. 

His senses clear enough to hear the sounds associated with a hospital (not as loud - patients could be so _loud_ in the general wards; Nurse Sarah shooing them away, 'Go outside away from this; Steve could catch anything in here.'), an IV in his right arm attached to fluids and something...orange. He frowns, uncomfortable with not knowing, being helpless until the Solider can affirm safety. 

Bucky is coiled on the edge of _get out get safe_ whensomeone pushes through the door set across and to the left, tall and beautiful, white coat bright against glowing dark skin. She's easy on the eyes but moves with the surity of one who knows she can defend herself if the need arose. Bucky narrows his eyes and pushes into the bed, ready to kick up off it. 

"We are glad to see you awake," she says, head held high. She seems to measure him up, eyes assessing his position, the tubes keeping him roped up, slow. 

Bucky scoffs and shakes his head. "You ain't a doctor."

“You are astute in your observation,” smiles the woman. “I am Aneka, one of the King's bodyguards."

The Solider in him appreciates the caution being given as a mark of how dangerous he is, but Bucky, the man being created anew from the ashes of a lower-class boy from Brooklyn, the one who made a decision not to kill, _he_  flinches. Then again, he hasn’t been entirely trustworthy - on his own merits and not those programmed into him - for seventy years. Why should it bother him now? 

“As you were not fully conscious at our last meeting,” Aneka begins, and Bucky must have been out of it because he doesn’t remember anything after lying down on the stretcher. “I felt it was necessary to see you now, to ask you a question.” She tips her head forward, making eye contact when he looks back up at here from where his eyes had been on the blanket. “You know what that question is, yes?”  

And _fuck_  if he doesn’t. “I - “ he stutters, then takes a deep breath and chews on his lip for a moment. “I don’t know.” 

“The question or - "

“The answer,” spits Bucky. “ _I_  don’t intend on hurting anybody, but that don’t mean shit.” 

Aneka takes a few steps closer to the bed at that, close enough he could reach her if he had a fucking left arm. _God,_ it’s been _decades_  and he feels like he lost it yesterday. Her gaze softens and Bucky groans internally - if she even _starts_  spouting some words of pity, he’s gonna have to go back on his word. One thing Bucky Barnes _hates_  is pity - when he was little, because of how poor his family was, when he was a teenager and his best friend landed in the hospital and almost died, when he was in Italy and then back and the others frowned when they thought he could see because they’d heard him screaming for _days_. 

“I don’t need you fucking pity,” he seethes, narrowing his eyes. 

The bodyguard smiles, all teeth. “And I would not give it. A warrior’s life is long, much too long, and full of blood. To pity one would insult her battles.”

“Oh thank Christ,” comes Bucky’s reply. He tries for a smile and finds it isn’t as hard to find as it used to be. “If I have to hear one more _I’m so sorry_  absolving me of responsibility, I may start hurting people.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Aneka smirks. He breathes easy, knowing she took is as dark humor. There’s a fluid grace to her movements, like a dancer across a dangerous stage. “King T’Challa and the Captain have returned to Berlin - "

“Such fucking morons,” grumbles Bucky, running a hand down his face. _I sent him there_. Yeah, thanks, he doesn’t need the reminder. Living for years with unclear memories has given him the practice needed to remember the conversations had while half-concious with pain. He winces when he remembers he practically _begged_  for his pack. 

“ - to turn Zemo into the task force,” she finishes - the glare reminds him of the smell of wood and burning incense and a stern voice admonishing him for….Bucky takes a breath and tries to will more to come, but the flash is gone, and he’s once again rooted in the present. 

It’s then that he can process what she’s said. “Please tell me Steve is going to be covert on that trip,” he asks of Aneka. “Fuck. Nevermind. Steve doesn’t really do subtle.” 

“I believe the King is attempting to secure his cover to ensure the safety of you and the Captain,” Aneka points out. She shucks the white coat to reveal a form-fitting dress that accents her figure and takes a seat in the chair next to the bed. “Government agencies can move slowly, and while we now know of your innocence, it will take time for the world to believe as well. King T’Challa is a noble man, and we trust his judgement.” 

_Read between the lines_. There isn’t a lot of innocence left in him, all of it burned out by decades of bad deeds and even worse punishments. That he was being controlled matters little to him - _his_  hands were covered in blood, _his_  self was left to watch. And all it took to strip away all of the _self_  he’s made over the past few years is _words_. 

Words read from a red notebook. In the basement of the headquarters in Berlin. Used to gain access to the Siberian facility.

“I need a phone,” he says, suddenly breathless. “I need a phone _now_.” 

 

* * *

 

It takes _awareness_ to keep from crushing the phone in his flesh and blood hand. Aneka is standing away from the bed, dark eyes on him destroying any idea of _privacy_  given by her move across the room. He has the feeling she’s there to keep him from harming anyone else, and he appreciates, on some level, that he won’t get the chance to mess shit up like he did in Berlin. 

“Hey, Buck,” Steve answers Bucky’s quick hello. He sounds tired - no, Steve sounds _exhausted_. The tone is one Bucky’s heard before, if only he could remember the context. Exhausted Steve lives in his memories, in his ability to read the man untarnished by years away. “How are you feeling?” 

Bucky lets out a growl of frustration - 

“Yeah, yeah, I know. You’re fine,” Steve sighs as he interrupts. “You’re always fine.” 

“Not really the time, Steve,” replies Bucky tightly. “We’ll talk recovered memories later. You still have Zemo?” 

“Uh, yeah.” There’s a significant pause punctuated by Steve’s breathing and the subtle woosh of the jet flying through the air. “Listen, Bucky -"

“For Chrissake, Rogers, I’m not asking you to hurt the guy.” It’s said as a half-joke, half admonishment for even _thinking_  he’d ask that. Part of him wants to, of course - not because of the fallout on him, but because of what Steve had to do, how he channeled his anger. Bucky wonders if Before-Him looked like that when rescuing a younger, scrawnier Steve. 

“Good, good. I know that.” 

Bucky elects not to bring up how automatic that answer seemed to be. “I need you to ask him where the notebook is. The one with the code.” 

There’s a moment before Steve catches up. “Shit. Hold on.” 

Bucky takes a breath and tries to calm the panic spreading through his limbs, the itch to _move_  and _get away_. There’s a book out there with words that can take him away, make him do things he doesn’t want to do. Fuck. He hasn’t wanted to do _any_  of this shit since 1943. The army, becoming a sniper, the last seventy years; Bucky Barnes is tired of doing shit he doesn’t want to. 

“He left it at the facility,” says Steve quickly. “I’ll head there as soon as I finish in Berlin. Damn. We should have thought of that.” 

But Bucky doesn’t hear much after _at the facility_. It’s just out there, in the snow somewhere, or in an abandoned hallway, the one thing that can take his self, his autonomy, away. Words burned into his mind, a sequence that traps what’s left of _Bucky_  and lets loose the Soldier. He remembers how terrified he was when Zemo started reading out the sequence, the primal need to _make him stop_. How weak did his mind have to be to be so completely taken over? 

“Bucky, hey man, are you still there?” tries Steve. 

He takes a couple more deep, measured breaths. “Yeah. Yeah I’m here.” 

“I’ll get it. I promise, I’ll get it.” 

He’s so ernest, Bucky can’t help but have complete faith in him. He _knows_ Steve will do anything for him, go to the ends of the earth trying to atone for the fabricated sin of not ditching a mission to search the Alps. _Knows_  this is the voice that got them all to abandon sanity and join the Howling Commandos.  “Don’t make a promise you can’t keep,” sighs Bucky. 

“I never do,” replies Steve. 

_Will he never learn?_  “Listen, I don’t want to be the reason you get taken in by that task force. They’ve gotta be looking for you by now.” 

“I’ll be careful.”  As if it were that simple. As if avoiding surveillance cameras, an entire police force, a multi-nation task force, and whoever’s still up and fighting is a walk in the park. There are too many variables, too many blind spots. The Soldier itches at the poor plan. 

“I wish I could be there with you,” he admits. “You know how I feel when I’m not watching your six."

“Yeah, you get grumpy,” scoffs Steve, who then adds: "You remember that?” 

“Some.” 

“T’Challa is with me,” he offers.

Bucky frowns and shakes his head. “Does he know about your need to start a fight with anyone who mouths off?” 

There’s a pause. “Probably?” 

“You don’t have to go."

“Are you kidding me? Of course I have to go, Buck!” 

“Come back here and be my nursemaid instead.” Bucky flirts to offset the tidal wave of anxiety threatening to drown him. And the Soldier waits in the undertow. _Just breathe_  he reminds himself. _You can control it_. Except he can’t - there is little he has control over these days - and he’s frustrated at how his body _still_  does things without his permission. 

It sounds like Steve is choking on something, but that’s just his embarrassment being expressed. Bucky decides to push his luck, prompted by memories he still doesn’t fully have the context for. He smirks, the corner of his mouth raised, and says, eyes on Aneka, “You ran off without giving me a goodbye kiss.” 

Her reaction is to smile back at him, head tilted. 

“You had a bloody mouth,” Steve answers as-matter-of-factly, and Bucky can _hear_  the grin on his face, embarrassment resolved with sarcasm and true emotion under the words. “Didn’t want to catch anything,” he adds. 

“Like you gotta worry about that anymore,” snorts Bucky.

“You never know,” Steve almost sing-songs. How the world hasn’t picked up on the fact that Steve Rogers is a sarcastic son of a bitch, he doesn’t know. 

“I’m not safe. Not right now.” 

“Don’t care,” Steve says with conviction. “Even if I can’t find the notebook."

“Steve - "

“I don’t break my promises, especially to you,” he sternly interrupts. There’s something laced under his declaration, a deeper something Bucky is only on the edge of grasping, but he wants to _so bad._  

_You should_ , he wants to say, _I’m damaged, I’m not him, I’m not worth it_. 

“You’re worth it,” Steve nearly whispers, a testament to how much of Before-Bucky remains to be read. “God, Bucky, you’re so worth it. You remember I - “ He cuts off halfway into a word in response to T’Challa calling his name. Even with the phone held away by Steve, Bucky can hear the entire conversation. They’re nearly to Germany - _why are we going towards Germany, Steve, when they’re the ones we’re shooting at_ \- and Steve needs to get ready to jump. 

“Jump?” Bucky shouts. “What the hell are you doing, Rogers?”

“Saving your ass. It’s about time I did.” 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I also have a tumblr! Not much there right now, but I plan on posting snippets and fanart as I go. misskira.tumblr.com


End file.
